Sweet Home
by RenaRoo
Summary: [Modern AU] In the aftermath of war, Wash is left with little direction in his own life. On his own, he takes up an ad for a roommate and suddenly finds himself wrapped up in the perplexing life of Doctor Emily Grey. [MONDAY UPDATES]
1. Who Are We Trying To Fool?

So this is a fic idea I've been throwing around now for a while and finally decided to publish. It's just a short, tiny little thing but I hope it's going to be enjoyable for everyone who gives it a chance. I should note that it takes place in the same "universe" as my other work, New Jazz Age, but you don't need to read one for the other. It's just the same backdrop, so to speak.

So, without further ado, here we go.

 **Sweet Home  
** Chapter One: Who Are We Trying to Fool?

He arrives in the town by train with only his carry on luggage. The bullet trains race across the countryside in very precise patterns and it takes him three checks of his GPS on his phone before David Washington is confident enough to exit. It would be a _long_ and _expensive_ trip to get back to this out of the way station in this out of the way town if he made the mistake of getting off at the wrong one.

Though, why it would matter where he got off was something even he couldn't answer.

There isn't anyone waiting for him at the station, and he's not entirely confident how to pronounce the long and complicated name over the arched doors.

Everyone else around him hurriedly meets with company or knows exactly where they're going as they zip off and around him.

In that way, in his military issue clothes, Washington stands out more like a sore thumb than he ever had in the platoon.

After uselessly checking his phone again, Washington feels his stomach coil uncomfortably as he realizes that service in the small town is scarce, and he needs to not only clear the loading dock soon for the next train, but that he needs to also determine what direction he's going to be walking in outside of the station.

When he asks the woman at the information counter if there are places to stay in town, she gives him a very curious look. It's not a common question to get in a town with a population of less than five thousand, but at the same time Washington isn't sure what else he could expect after randomly plugging in GPS coordinates on Google Earth while having enough beers to get a buzz.

Surely he had known what he was in for when he bought his ticket.

There's an honestly pretty pathetic motel on the outskirts of town, and he's honked at by passing cars at least five times as he walks alongside the road to get to it from the train station. It's easy to ignore when he has his attention fully focused on the task at hand. He's gotten _very_ good at forcing himself to focus.

The front desk for the motel is about the size of the room they are using as its office.

"Here's your keys," the woman at the desk offers, giving him two chipped cards. "Is there anything else I can get for you?"

Washington takes the keys and immediately pockets them before adjusting his bag. "Do you have a local newspaper? With… apartment ads? Roommate ads? I don't know… a _Penny Saver_ or something?" he asks, feeling more awkward with every word.

The woman blinks at him lazily before pointing to the sign behind her. "You can load free wifi up in your room—"

"I appreciate that, but I mean… do they make… physical papers anymore?" he tries again. He's not sure if they do. It seems like an odd question to him now that it's out loud.

"I don't have any copies of our local paper, Sir, your best chance to find anything you're looking for is on the internet," she says flatly. "Like a normal person."

Despite his tightly controlled demeanor, Washington can't help but flicker up a dangerous glare toward the woman. It's the sort of look he's tried to restrain in public since his return but the unnecessary comment forces it out of him. There's no satisfaction, however, because she's back to looking at her computer screen.

"Normal people are pleasant with customers," he mutters under his breath.

"What?" she asks, looking back up.

Wash actually considers repeating himself but he exhales through his nose and cracks his neck muscles. "That's fine. I'll… look it up in my room."

She doesn't look like she believes him but she goes back to work all the same, seemingly more annoyed by the conversation than anything else. "We don't allow long-term or indefinite tenants," she informs him.

"Why?" he asks.

"Too many people selling drugs," she replies before looking back at him Her eyes glance over his military dress. "What're you on?"

"Nothing," he says too quickly and he knows it.

"Mmkay," she replies back. "I don't know anyone who's come back and isn't on _something,"_ she tries to argue before Wash heads out the door. "It's the only reason you people come to Chorus!"

Washington knows it's going to be useless to make a complaint, but he's going to write one out, _on paper,_ to give to management when he finally leaves the shitty motel anyway. Because it'll make him feel a little better about the whole ordeal even if it won't _really._ His anger's so out of check as he reaches his outside facing room door that Wash can barely slide his card properly through the card reader as a result. He's sliding too quickly or too harshly or _something_ he just can't fathom why chewing the inside of his cheek bare isn't enough to break the flare up on its own—

He gets in the room and immediately becomes awash with relief. He breathes deeply and steps inside, closing the door behind him.

There isn't much to the room. A bed, a mini fridge. No microwave. The iron is laying on the floor where the holder is broken. There's exactly one nightstand with a piece of paper, the password for the wifi written out.

Washington lets his bag slide off his shoulder and stands in place, looking around at the room like it's the culmination of all his life choices at once and then leans his head back.

"What're we doing next, Wash?" he asks.

He doesn't even know what he means by it. What's his next move? What's his next week? His next day? His next hour? His next minute.

Before the thoughts become too depressive, he opens up his phone and glances at the wifi bar.

"Someone has to be looking for a roommate in this town who _isn't_ a complete jerk, right?" he asks out loud before beginning his search for the night. " _Right…"_

* * *

There are lots of ways that Wash isn't fully ready for real life and what's expected of him next because of it.

He doesn't sleep much and he hasn't even thought of what prospects having a job could give him. Really, the moment he was reassured his automatic payments from the military were coming to his bank account, he bought a few boxes of cereal and has stayed mostly in his motel room since then.

And despite the rudeness of his first encounter with the front desk, the gas station across the street _does_ in fact have printed newspapers and he has been looking through them with each new edition as he eats cereal and tries not to become too overwhelmed with his circumstances.

There are a few ads looking for roommates, but the one which catches his attention the most is the one which at first he thought was a store advertisement, like some local ice cream or candy shop at the strip mall.

 _Sweet Home_ it says in large, loopy letters that almost didn't make it all to print, the last _e_ hanging off the edge of the advertisement.

Looking for one roommate, does not mind odd hours of coming and going, two-bedroom house with one bathroom. Current tenant is a graduate student hence the odd hours.

Washington reads over the ad a few more times, swallows down his cereal, and can't help but think that this is a rare opportunity.

He only hopes it's not too good to be true.

* * *

When Washington arrives at the address listed as _Sweet Home_ in the advertisements, he almost has to do a double take and assume he's in the wrong neighborhood or that there has been some sort of misprint in the rent listed.

This part of town is too nice, the house is a _house_ and not a cottage or condo-sized residence. There's a small, picket fenced yard around it, and the mailbox is encased in _brick_ with a decorative sign saying _Sweet Home_ in ornate print.

Which goes against his assumption that the address is wrong but _still._

The discomfort that Washington is already certain to experience in an interview has nearly tripled just by looking at the house he was going to try to rent from.

Instantly annoyed at the fact that his expectations are so _aggressively_ incorrect or that his instincts are so _clearly_ out of whack, Wash is ready to turn back and head to the motel for another night of interrogating for his end of stay and whether or not he's some kind of baby killer like the anti-war propaganda seems to say he and others are, when there is a loud knocking from the house.

It's enough to make Washington pause and wonder who it could be for. Certainly not for _him._

At least, he thinks so until he glances toward the house and sees the excitable face in the window, tapping enthusiastically before waving. Then she disappears from the window for a moment.

When the door bursts open, the same frizzle haired woman from the window is standing there, arms out and gripping to the doorframe as if it's the only thing keeping her from lunging down the patio and onto Wash and the sidewalk. Her smile is as brilliant as her clothes are distractingly unique. Bright flawless white with purple spirals dancing across the fabric. They match her earrings.

Wash looks down the street and back for the Magic School Bus.

"You must be David!" the woman cries out emphatically. "So sorry! Hope the directions weren't confusing! Come in, come in! I can't tell you how excited I am to have you! I can, and probably _will_ tell you. But positively can't _wait_ to tell you in person. You're much taller than I expected. Also not nearly as tall as I had hoped. Your voice has a certain… baritone quality."

She pauses and turns back around to face Washington.

He hasn't moved from his spot, still looking at the woman warily and with more apprehension than any body should possess.

After an awkward silence the woman takes her smile down a few watts and squints a bit, making a pinching motion with her fingers. "A bit much on the enthusiasm levels, wasn't it? Needs to be taken down a bit for a first greeting, yes?"

Washington blinked a few times before shaking his head. The polite thing is to probably say no and yet Wash is pretty sure he didn't learn polite in basic.

"It's a bit much for me," he replies. "But it's probably… _okay_ for normal people?"

"Oh how dreadful," the purple woman hums in reply. "Normal people at Sweet Home. Alright then. Adjustments, Emily. Adjustments. You've been preparing for this." In enormous, long strides she walks from the door to the fence where she reaches her hand over, out for Washington to take. He can't help but stare at her lack of shoes instead. "Greetings! You must be David Washington. We spoke on the phone about an interview for you being my roommate? I'm Emily Grey."

Blinking again, Wash still isn't sure what to make of the situation so he accepts the hand offered to him. "Hello, Miss Grey—"

"Oops! Sorry. It's _Doctor_ Grey," she corrects kindly.

"Hello… _Doctor_ Grey," Wash continues. "You can just call me Washington. Most people do. Well, military people do. But sorry about my height." And because he cannot stop himself, he continues, "You know, when I read the advertisement and it said you're a grad student I imagined someone…" Finally catching himself, Wash freezes up, eyes widening. They still awkwardly have hold of each other's hands and he realizes that he cannot finish the sentence he started with anything that is not an insult. But he _definitely_ can't say what he was thinking which is that he expected someone… well, _younger._

Doctor Grey stares back at him, smile still firm, grip still like a constrictor.

"So… tall?" he finally comes up with rather lamely.

"We both set far too much expectation for heights, I'm afraid," she says with a gentle sigh.

"Obviously," Wash expresses awkwardly.

They're still holding hands on opposite sides of the stupid white picket fence and Wash is pretty sure hives have just broken out around his neck where his sweatshirt collar is rubbing. Things are looking… _worse?_ He's not certain how things could be worse and yet…

"Well, that's enough eye contact for one day," Emily announces abruptly, releasing Wash's throbbing hand. "Time to show you around the house, yes?"

"If I haven't already blown the interview then yes, I guess that's as good of a place to start as any," Wash replies.

He doesn't necessarily mean it as a joke, but Emily Grey bursts out in laughter — a high pitched, unmistakably genuine cackle like the sister of the Wicked Witch — and opens the gate to the fence. "Ah, you _are_ a gem, Mister Washington. I can already tell. Can I call you David yet?"

Wash gives her a strange look as he enters the fence and scratches at his neck. "I… no. I don't… Washington's fine. Most people call me Washington," he repeats himself from before.

"Huh, alright then," Emily says, her eyes sharp and attentive before she turns and waves to the front of the house. "This is Sweet Home. I'm afraid the front side _is_ the best side of it. The rest is rather normal looking. But this _is_ the part you can see from the road so that will have to do. There's a bus stop at the end of the corner. Public transit takes you into downtown, to the university, and to four of the six neighborhoods that the mayor seems to think matters."

"It goes by the motel, too," Wash offers. "That's how I got here."

"Does that building still hold up to code? I thought someone lit the place on fire with a forgotten joint last year," Doctor Grey says mostly to herself, finger thoughtfully held to her chin. "Well then, you already know more about town than I do, Mister Washington!"

"I seriously doubt that," Wash tries to assure her. But before the words are even done coming from his mouth, she's moving on to the inside of the building. He has to shake his head slightly and jog in order to keep up with the ongoing tour.

Inside the house it's aa fairly standard two floor home. There's a stair case in the foyer, a living room immediately to the left, and a kitchen viewable from the hall of the foyer itself. A den to the right.

Wash knows that these are exactly what each of these rooms are not only from the atmosphere inspired by each of them but by the signs hanging above each door frame, written in that same eloquent font as _Sweet Home_ 's sign outside. It is a confusing choice in decor to say the least. But _more_ confusing is that there's not a single bookshelf in sight yet every room, every corner, every piece of furniture has books stacked. Text books, mostly subjects ending in - _ologies_ that Wash can't recognize for the life of him, but also various other kinds of books, some paperback mystery novels, and one book that catches his eye due to the oil painting on the cover which features a naked woman held by a centaur.

So porn apparently is just an open subject. Interesting.

"I can't wait to show you the full house — well, _half_ full. That's just the kind of woman I am. I love seeing the house as half full rather than remembering that I have a space for a roommate and it's really something you could say is half _empty,"_ Grey blathers.

Washington is still trying to take everything in but is distracted by a strong smell coming from the kitchen. "Are those…"

"Oh, yes! I made you muffins. Do you have any allergies? I was worried you did so rather than make just one type of muffin and possibly hear that you're allergic to nuts, bananas, strawberries, blackberries, blueberries, corn, or gluten, I made all of them individually. Now they're roughly the size of souffles and it only _just_ occurred to me that you might be vegan," she gasped at her own negligence and turned toward Washington, hand on her heart. "Are you vegan?"

"Not… yet…?" Washington answers only to realize it makes no sense once it leaves his brain. "Wait what. No I mean. I'm not. Vegan. Or allergic. And… muffins sound wonderful."

"Oh, good," she laughs, guiding him toward the kitchen. "Then I should let you know, the only real question I have for you right now is whether or not you have any uncontrollable impulses."

Caught off guard by Grey once again, Wash has to do a double take at her. "Impulses?"

"Yes, no judgment. I just need to know of any phobias or compulsive instincts you may have. Such as, are you a kleptomaniac?" she asks as if she's talking about the weather.

He stares at her, mortified. " _No,"_ he answers definitively.

"Oh, good, you have the room, move in as soon as you like. Today if you wish!" she replies cheerfully, pulling out a chair from the kitchen island where the array of giant muffins are set up. "Now, you just plop on down here, and I'll run to the store and have a copy made of my key to give to you and we can talk about when you want to make your monthly payments or if you like six months rent up front and what your plans are for your life and whether or not you're escaping any responsibilities including but not exclusive to child support payments."

There is so much being said and so much at once that Washington shakes his head and looks at her in confusion. "Wait, what? Also… do you need me to go back to the hotel or… follow you to the store?"

"No, silly, just eat any muffins you want," she assures him, grabbing a coat and keys from the coat rack nearby.

"You don't even know me," Wash replies, bewildered.

"I know you're not a kleptomaniac and that I need to start trusting you sometime if you're going to be a roommate of mine," she laughs, pulling on her coat and heading toward the front door. "I'll finish showing you the house when I get back with your key! Shouldn't take more than a few minutes! Or you can wander around the house at your own pace while I'm out. I won't mind."

"You really _should_ mind," Wash says, feeling his heart is about to beat out of his chest. _What the hell is happening right now._

"You're not a kleptomaniac!" she reminds him, like it's significant. "Welcome to Sweet Home!"

Grey walks straight out the door without shoes and Washington all but collapses into sitting at the island in bewilderment. He is _overtly_ aware of his strange surroundings and how none of this seems particularly normal. He doesn't know how he even got to this point. But at the same time, a strange anxiety and protectiveness is eating at him already.

There's the question of what is possibly wrong with who is now apparently his roommate, but there's also the foreign feeling of being put unexpectedly into a spot of responsibility for a house he is about to live in.

There's so many questions swimming in his confused mind, but as he reaches out and grabs one of the homemade giant muffins and takes a bite, at least _one_ of the questions gets its answer.

"That's why it's called Sweet Home," he decides, nose curled.


	2. Home Cooked Meal

Okay I apologize that this chapter took SO very long to post, but I had a huge move across states and holiday shenanigans to wade through which, I know, isn't much of an excuse but! Hopefully now I'm back and on schedule… right before Christmas. No promises but much appreciation for all of your patience!

A special shout out to Silverhuntress, Yin, secretlystephaniebrown, and BraveSeeker3 from AO3, ffn, and tumblr for the feedback and support! You guys really help to make this experience that much more rewarding!

 **Sweet Home  
** Chapter Two: Home Cooked Meal

There's something that Washington can only describe as an itch that starts inside of his skull. It visits him every time he lays his head on his pillow and tries to close his eyes, tries to fall to sleep.

It starts as a small irritation and then it grows, a throb he can't quite place, a pressure behind his eyes that makes him nauseous.

Even in the off chance that he falls asleep, he rolls with motion in every limb. He feels flushed, and sick, and his heart will beat so wildly that he _swears_ sometimes it's loud enough to wake him up.

And he _does_ wake up.

Every night, Washington wakes to darkness that fades into a dim, burning morning light through the blinds. And every night he's certain that he's going to be in the exact same place he was when the itch first started.

Some tent, a barrack, somewhere humid with the air stealing his breath as he tried to sleep. Somewhere not far enough from the cries and moans and groans of the triage tent. Somewhere where reveille threatens every moment. And where reveille doesn't, gunfire does.

But as much as Washington expects the normalcy of the abnormal, the thing he can't _quite_ get used to is the fact that when he opens his eyes anymore it's not to these things but to a hotel room. To a real room. To a transient halfway home. To a ward. To a home.

To Sweet Home.

Washington lays on his back in the bed that is too soft on the sheets that have too high of a thread count, and he stares at the ceiling wondering why there's a vent blowing in cold air instead of stealing the moisture from his mouth.

He's uncomfortable with the sweet comforts of a home that even with a lease signed doesn't quite feel like his own.

Quite plainly, he hates it. He thinks it might be time to move on again.

But his bones ache at the challenge of relocating. His mind throbs with past scars too hard and too binding to struggle against. His eyes feel bloodshot even as he lacks the ability to sleep.

The world is too quiet. The land is too peaceful. It doesn't feel real.

Civilian life does not feel real after war. It feels sickly naive and purposeless.

By four in the morning, still waiting for reveille, Washington gets on the floor and begins his pushups for the morning.

* * *

There isn't an alarm clock in Washington's new room, but there is a clock. And the moment it tells him that it's seven he knows that he probably shouldn't still be lying around. After all, as much as he could justify it to himself and not move for an entire day when he's on his own, there's this weird sense of obligation to acknowledge the day when he has a roommate.

That is something he honestly wasn't expecting from the whole situation.

Is Emily the type of person to judge? If she _is_ the type of person to judge does that mean she's not someone Wash should be spending his time concerned with?

Would it be a bad thing if he just laid back and melted into his mattress during the day and found out he lived with someone who _didn't_ notice or care.

The itch inside Wash's skull is acting up again so, for no other reason than to _at least_ justify having a change of scenery.

Washington dresses himself mildly. Jeans, a worn out shirt, things from a life he barely remembered that fit like an alien skin. But it is enough to look presentable and not take the hit of a _utterly_ terrible appearance on their first morning as roommates. Awkward and presentable and hiding beneath a persona that isn't his own anymore but could act as a shield at least for a little while.

When he looks into the mirror, Washington doesn't really recognize himself, but that is the point, after all.

He carries himself with a little bit of mustered up confidence and walks out of his bedroom to—

The entire house smells like maple syrup.

It is an entirely unexpected realization, one that has Washington walking cautiously out of his door and on guard due to pure bewilderment, but the further he walks toward the kitchen, the thicker the various smells and sounds of a fresh breakfast became and the more that Washington is sure that he is only on the cusps of understanding why the house has a name.

His stealth is challenged by the stacks and stacks of books which litter the halls, and despite himself Wash knocks down some sticky notes as he pushes through the doorframe of the kitchen.

Those are new since the previous day, and as much as he scrambles for the pieces of paper, there isn't a whole lot to help him keep things in order. And in the scramble he knocks over a stack of books that crashed like a skyscraper caving in.

"Damn it," Wash hisses at himself as he tries to figure out where the rewind button for his _life_ is hiding.

"Oh, I'm so glad you're up, David!" Emily calls cheerfully from the kitchen.

Hearing his name makes the hairs on Wash's neck stand on end and he drops almost half of the sticky notes he has tried desperately to save from his own clumsiness. Still, it seems _small_ compared to the intrusion that is hearing his first name come from someone else's mouth.

In the cluttered kitchen there is a new assortment of books on the island that hadn't been there the night before. On one side there is a neat stack of text books on what looks like an odd combination of local history, zoology, and a few field guides for reptiles and mammals. The other side is messily arranged with cook books and self-help guides that are tattered, overused, and covered in questionable substances. Neither side is particularly comforting.

"I go by just Washington," he corrects without thinking. Realizing that is a weird greeting in the morning, he shakes his head and refocuses on the doctor's back as she continues to cook at the stove opposite of the kitchen to him. "Sorry. I mean, I apologize for… the mess. I didn't see all of this here last night when you were showing me around."

"They weren't there," Emily assures him. "They are my research notes for my sessions today. I was just jotting down what I thought is relevant this morning before it is time to cook breakfast."

He levels his stare at her, raising a brow at the acute lack of interest she seems to have in apologizing for how insanely _cluttered_ the house they are supposed to share is mostly with _her_ stuff. But he is able to convince himself to write it off as a quirk and press forward toward the seats at the island.

After all, there is _plenty_ of things that Emily is doing seemingly just out of the goodness of her heart that day. Not the least of which is a giant breakfast.

"It's been a long time since I had a big meal for breakfast," Wash tries for amicable, settling in a seat. "Military rations aren't what they're cracked up to be."

"Ah, yes, military," Emily says, turning around on her heels with a platter _full_ of pancakes — there has to be three stacks at least ten pancakes high each, glistening with syrup and butter and who _knew_ what else considering each battered pancake is speckled with what looks like finely chopped fruit. "That would explain your sleeping patterns. I counted at least four rotations during your two hours of consecutive rest. Dreadful. Statistically speaking."

Wash's eyes are still attempting to return to a normal size in his skull before he could even begin to process her comments. He blinked a few times before raising his chin and looking over the pancakes to Emily Grey herself. "Why are you observing my sleep, and what did you make these pancakes for and—"

When Grey had been turned to him, Washington took for granted that the molecular patterned robe has been hinting as to whatever nightwear that Emily is into. Not that it _concerned_ Washington, it is simply something that he makes the poor choice of finding a non-feature considering the nerdy gear that Grey has on display the day before as she showed off Sweet Home.

Not in a million years would Washington have predicted even if given the chance, to assume that his roommate would be cooking breakfast in glorified, translucent lingers with frills and lace and garters hooked to her thong.

Almost immediately, Washington buries his head in his forearms on the table and squeezed his eyes shut as much as he could.

"Why are you in lingerie!?" Wash screeches out as soon as soon as the air returns to his lungs.

"Oh, I got caught up in my notes and then needed to start breakfast and never got around to it," Grey answers with a hum.

"So it's not an accident!?" Wash's voice cracks even more.

"Hm. Mister Washington, you seem to be uncomfortable. Is this because of my food or because of my flagrant disregard for socially constructed norms?" Emily asks curiously.

For a moment more than Wash cares to admit, he actually has to consider the question and even wonder about its validity. Things that, were he rational at all, he shouldn't require a moment's thought to be wasted on.

"Typically if I don't see people doing it in the streets then I assume that it's probably not something they should be doing in company either," he says instead.

Relief crosses Emily's face almost immediately and she takes a deep breath as she puts a hand over her chest. "So it _isn't_ my cooking then!"

"What? No! Of course not. Thank you. The… Yes. Cooking is fine. I… wasn't expecting it and…" Wash isn't sure how she was able to turn the awkwardness on him so quickly, but he's fully committed at that moment and he pokes at the stack of pancakes with the nearest fork. "Well, I'm not… entirely sure how I'm supposed to eat all of it, if I'm being completely honest."

Emily looks a bit astounded, her eyebrows raising high over her glasses. "You believe you can eat the entire stack? Why, that's absolutely fascinating…"

Beginning to grab at the hair on the sides of his head, Washington feels himself tense up. "No? I couldn't eat… I think they smell and look delicious. Again. _Thank you._ But there's no way I could—"

"Oh, thank goodness. I wasn't sure if I'd have much time to make more at this time!" Grey laughs in relief, acting as though she's wiping sweat from her brow in a quick sweep. "You shouldn't worry people like that when they have company on the way, Wash. You joker."

The tenseness only amplifies at that statement and Washington gives his roommate a horrendously _terrified_ look. "Company? What company? I didn't know you were expecting people. I… Do I need to leave or…" He stops himself by physically reaching up with his hands and pinching the bridge of his nose tightly as his eyes squeeze close. The pinch should also serve to wake him from the nightmare of that morning if things in his life aren't as topsy turvy as he thinks they may actually be.

Of course, he opens his eyes and is still in the oddity that is his life. So he tries to work with it.

"You seem distressed," Emily points out worriedly.

"You have company coming and you're in lingerie and an apron," Washington counters.

"You're right, that's not very professional of me," she remarks before smacking the palm of her hand against her forehead. "Come now, Emily, not so silly."

Washington is beginning to run out of surprise left in his system so he eases back into the island's first stool and awkwardly hugs his arms against his body in anticipation. "So you're going to put… things on, right?"

"Absolutely!" she says cheerfully, taking her apron off and tossing it over the counter first. It leaves Wash no recourse but to cover his face and turn a shoulder toward her entirely. "Thank you, Washington! I knew you would be an excellent addition to this house! Tell everyone that I will be down shortly!"

Emily is passing him again and up the stairs before her words _really_ make an impact on him.

Straightening up, Wash's head swivels back toward the hall and stairs. "Emily? Em… Doctor Grey? What do you… When are the people supposed to be—"

As if he is part of some cosmic joke, the front door, which _apparently_ Emily doesn't keep locked, opens with a bell ring and standing on the porch is six teenagers who range from anxious to excited to plain _bored._

And one disgusted.

"Gross. The newspaper drug dealer is going to be here for breakfast?" the girl Wash saw not that long ago at the front desk of the motel says from the side of the group, squinting at him suspiciously.

"What… Why are you…" He stops and then looks up toward the ceiling as if to glare through the second floor at Emily Grey herself. "Is she… Ms Frizzle or something?"

"Oh, man, that's _hilarious!_ We should start calling her that!" says the anxiety ridden boy in the front wearing a letterman jacket too big for him and bright turquoise sneakers.

"Shut up, Palomo," the disgustingly bored kid with a lip ring snaps at him before pushing forward. "Dude, what kind of drugs do you deal?"

Washington squints. "I don't deal drugs— Shouldn't all of you… I don't know. Do school or something?"

"Pay attention, Antoine, the man _obviously_ deals in _newspapers,"_ the tallest of the teens claims with some authority he should not feel he has.

"Oh!" the second girl breathes thickly through large braces. "Whischech one? My mahum worsched for the Pohhsscht. Before it went under. Oh! Are yousch unemploight too?"

"Obviously that's why he started selling drugs," the girl from the motel desk claims.

"I don't deal drugs!" Washington snaps angrily.

"What _do_ you do?" the last teen, a meek boy in the back asks.

Head throbbing from frustration, Washington got to his feet and heads right for the door, rushing past the teenagers. There's a steady thrumming in his chest that's causing a dryness he cannot stand. And he needs to _get away_ to clear things up, he just knows so instinctively. "I leave dramatically," he answers sourly as he makes it to the door. "Enjoy your pancakes."

He's a few steps down from the porch when he hears a scathing "Way-to-fucking- _go_ , Matthews."

But Wash is already out. With no shoes or socks. And in pajamas.

He regrets his decisions quite a bit within the first block, but as he presses on in determination he decides that he _really_ hates his stubbornness a lot more.

* * *

More humility probably will end up serving Washington well in the future but, until then, a few trips down the street and back made him at least _receptive_ to going back to Sweet Home. The gravel denting the soles of his feet and the discomfort of being in pajamas even in a neighborhood that seemingly had no one within it made him downright _eager._

By the time he reaches the corner where the bizarre house he is trying to make a home, there's a _different_ group of people entering through the picket fence as the teenagers vacate, shooting him befuddled looks and whispering among themselves.

He hears something along the lines of _I told you he was on drugs_ and only with gritted teeth is able to ignore it.

Looking at the house again, Washington feels the weight of the bags under his eyes as well as the uncomfortable twisting of his guts that are trying to punish him greatly for passing up on pancakes.

Practically backed into a corner by circumstance, Washington sighs heavily and goes on into the house with his annoyance in check.

The books lining the hallways are, somehow, different than the ones he nearly knocked over as he tried to leave, and there's a large amount of arguing from the kitchen where he can barely see anything but a blur of very colorful t-shirts.

Bright clashing colors and _loudness_ isn't really feeling like Washington's bag at the moment so he decides to take his rumbling stomach up the stairs and to his room so he can get dressed and maybe find some greasy fast food to waste his meager savings on. But as mornings seem to be _desperate_ to counter his every opportunity at fleeting sanity, he hears a familiar voice come up behind him when he's only a few steps up the stairs instead.

"Oh! David! I was hoping you would come back before the next batch of pancakes are done!" Emily called out almost in song.

Wash turns enough to really give her a look over, somewhat relieved that she's wearing another colorful, white and purple outfit rather than, well, _whatever_ she wanted to call her apparel before. But her bright, wide eyes and general cheer was exhausting.

"I was just going to grab some things and head out," he informs her, throwing a thumb toward the top of the stairs. He neglects to mention that the thought is _also_ running through his head to just grab _all_ of the things and take off entirely.

"Oh, I wish you wouldn't, there's just too many people to meet, and with a town this small once you meet _some_ of the people, you'll soon know _all_ of the people!" she says in a tone that makes Washington _feel_ he should be delighted. But it doesn't help provide any such delight.

"Why _is_ the whole town eating breakfast in your kitchen?" he asks instead.

" _Our_ kitchen," Grey corrects him without hesitation.

"Okay," he decides against arguing.

Grey waits for a moment before letting off a small laugh. "Silly, please, the _whole_ town isn't eating breakfast in the kitchen today. Just everyone on the community's intramural volleyball team."

Wash squints at her. "Why? And why do they think I do drugs?"

"Because everyone likes my pancakes," Grey says like it's an answer. "Hm. _Do_ you do any drugs?"

"What? _No,"_ Wash remarks, utterly offended

"Huh. That's odd. I have no idea why they would make that kind of assumption. _You know what they say about assumptions,"_ she sings again. When she finishes and looks back at Washington there is something softer in her expression, a gentile to her eyes that undercuts the abundant enthusiasm and high pitches _just enough_ to change the entire mood of the conversation. "Do you not want to join us for breakfast? I can leave you some food in the warmer if you need time in the morning to go through a routine or anything. And I won't let anyone else upstairs."

"Yeah… I'm… I don't feel like meeting new people today," Washington answers keenly. "I… had enough excitement yesterday to last me a while. And I _would_ appreciate those pancakes."

"Alright then!" Emily says.

There's a moment where Wash feels… relief, or _something_ from the exchange. A small comfort from confiding, perhaps. But then the rest of his roommate's words catch up with him and his brows furrow in despair. "Wait. _Anyone else?_ You let people upstairs earlier?"

"Of course," she responds like it's a completely normal thing.

Without another word toward her, Washington rushes up the stairs to check his things.

"Alright then! See you later, David!"

"It's Washington!" he yells back over his shoulder.

It takes him two hours to go through the very meager supplies he brought with him in the move, and by the time he finishes the house is empty and he is _starving._ His nerves are frayed, like they are left to discharge static after a monumental disruption. No one has taken his things, no one has gone _through_ his things, and no one is in the house anymore to meet or watch or judge. And yet his heart is pounding.

People _could_ have. And that possibility suddenly feels like enough to move anywhere else in the world to get away.

But, of course, the finances for _that_ sort of escape are the very reason he is in Sweet Home to begin with.

It's not even ten in the morning, but Washington feels like his entire day is torture.


	3. Drawing Lines

A/N: Long time, little see, and I'm truly sorry about that 3 For those who don't know, as of January this year I have taken on quite a few more jobs than what we had before. I am a graduate student but on top of that I began teaching classes for the university on my own and I have been working very hard on my research project which is picking up steam now that the mating season for wolf spiders has begun! So busy busy here though I do hope everyone has had a good few months themselves and that this story is still worth the wait for those who come back to it 3 I appreciate you all more than you know

A special shout out to secretlystephaniebrown, splendiferousblog, freelancerfeels, ziggyzagzag, Yin, om3g4, and Zed Said from AO3, ffn, and tumblr for the feedback and support! You guys really help to make this experience that much more rewarding!

 **Sweet Home  
** Chapter Three: Drawing Lines

It has been a very long week and, despite knowing that the town is less than a few miles wide at best, Washington hasn't brought himself to do much more than accompany Emily Grey to the store and back in order to carry groceries.

As he lays in his bed that _still_ doesn't feel very much like _his_ , it really and truly hits him how small the world seems after the war. He left for it with this idea that the universe is large and vast, that he is truly fighting for things to be better and for home to be stronger and more taken care of than it ever had been before.

But the world is small and knowing it intimately only proves to show Washington the worst of its cracks and pitfalls.

He fought for this town, he fought for a place like Sweet Home to live up to its name. But the streets are cracked, the roads have holes, and most of the properties have grass reaching for higher standards than the owners.

Sometimes, laying in his bed outside of his supposedly only two hours of consistent sleep, Washington finds himself staring at the proverbial _and_ literal wall, holding his breath and counting to ten.

He's waiting for an answer. He's waiting to be told what it is that he sacrificed everything that once made him human for.

He's waiting for things to make sense again. But without reveille or shouts or marching orders, it just doesn't.

And the world just gets even smaller around him.

* * *

For every morning that Wash woke up to a full course meal and a half naked housemate, there is a morning where he wakes up to absolute silence and solitude.

Asking questions, even if normal and social, feels invasive and uncomfortable, even in concept, for Wash so he opts instead to rely on powers of observations and checking for patterns. The most easily noticed of these being the way the stacks of books all over the house change by the day, and especially how much they change — or how much they grow — on the days that Emily is absent in the mornings and not back until the late nights.

It is then that Wash puts together that his housemate, the already-doctor, is actually still a student. That is why so many younger college age people are coming in and out of Sweet Home.

It's as questionable as the anomaly that is Emily Grey herself, but again, the anxiety of actually phrasing a proper question that isn't intrusive, rude, bigoted, sexist, out of touch, judgmental, arrogant, condescending, or just plain _vague_ is too much and Washington fumbles it even in theory.

So he sticks to counting book stacks and making himself cereal on lonely mornings.

Not lonely. Solitary.

 _Lonely_ implies that Washington doesn't prefer it and, well, he doesn't. But he doesn't _un_ prefer it either.

And that's the rub of it.

For all the draining exhaustion that proximity to Emily's rotation of guests brought him, Washington finds himself not doing much with his solitary time either. Just checking the news, getting the mail, and digging through his own thoughts with all the caution and malaise afforded to a gravedigger.

He's in the middle of just that one particularly _solitary_ morning, a cereal bowl still in his grasps, when the _back_ door next to the stove opens up with a loud _BANG._ It's as if a tornado was trying to rip the door from its hinges, and Washington can't even process it before the solitary space he has masked himself in becomes occupied by a bounding creature with fur and teeth and an odor similar to tarmac.

There's a moment, after the sharp paws are buried into Wash's chest but before the back of his chair is going to find itself addressing the floor, that Washington thinks a bomb has gone off — one that bends reality and warps the quiet he strangles himself with optionally is transported back to scorching heat and screams and the worst that people can do to one another.

It's a hysterical notion, one that would possibly rival the sort of genuine psychosis that seems to get his housemate all riled up about his sleeping habits, but it's the only thing Washington can think before he's dazed on the ground with a literal dog standing on his pajama covered chest, rotating around like it's looking for the next challenger in a game of King of the Hill.

"Freckles!"

Washington takes in the moment once again. He's not dying. He's not shot. There's not a war in the kitchen, only whatever intrusion Emily Grey has brought upon his life again. And he doesn't even get in a count to _three_ for his anger exercises before the fury erupts from him like a volcano.

"What the _hell_ is going on!?" he gets out, only to have the dog's attention whip right back to him.

The dog is a sharp looking, large chested doberman. Chocolate colored where Wash's senses tell him it should be black, tan where it should be brown on its nose and wrapped around its feet like socks. The eyes are yellow, intimidating, and it has ears pinned high from cropping. Washington hadn't even realized it was a practice with animals anymore, but he supposes on reflection that inhumanity isn't restrained to what people do to each other.

What is just as shocking is the man who the voice belongs to.

He comes around the kitchen island with a curious, wide eyed look on his face, lips drawn together in a surprised _oh_ as he examines the situation he brought upon Sweet Home.

The man is large and bulking. Wash's instincts are to think it's fitting of his extremely large dog but, somehow, the man is even too large and thick even for that to be a complete fit. He's not chiseled so much as he's built large, and his head is weighed down by a mess of spiky, unkempt hair that stands end on end in a way that tells Washington the man's less familiar with a brush than even Wash is. His skin is tanned hide but not wrinkled or old, just worn and not as well taken care of as he could use.

He's wearing a blue hoodie and khaki pants that have not a single wrinkle, and those are the strangest things in Wash's mind because the man is also wearing with them standard issue military boots.

"Hello!" the man says loudly.

"Is this your dog!?" Washington demands just as loudly. There's a low stage of panic beginning to set in as the dog looks less happy to have Washington talking and Washington's chest is feeling less happy to have a dog standing on it.

For a moment, the man seems more surprised than Wash, and he glances toward the dog as if there is some _other_ dog that Washington would be addressing. And a big, goofy smile crosses his face as he looks back down to Wash.

"Oh! Yes. This is Freckles. He is a very good boy. Aren't you, Freckles? Aren't you a very good boy?" the man coos toward the dog.

Taking his gaze off of Wash, the dog turns around and looks at the man, nub of a tail wagging so hard his entire butt is moving with it. The dog's front paws pick up and ram down many times excitedly on Wash's chest. Then it barks loud and keening.

"Get him off of me!" Wash demands in a hiss between gasps of breath.

Blinking again, the man glances down at Washington, then looks around the house in confusion. "Oh, no. I don't know you. I thought this is the Sugar House. Oh no. This is very bad. I do not want trouble again. I only want the nice lady doctor in the Sugar House—"

The man sounds panicked, and the more he panics, the more the dog reacts. First with a whining bark, then with finally leaping from Wash's chest toward the man. It prances around its human before pressing the flat of its head into the palm of the man's hand.

And, suddenly, Wash begins making sense of things. The solitary doesn't come back, but he's not gone into chaos anymore.

Not any more than usual, by any means.

"Do you mean _Sweet Home?"_ Wash asks as he raises up to a sitting position, holding onto his no doubt bruised ribs.

"Yes!" the man calls out excitedly. "Oh! _Oh!_ Do you know where it is? I am very lost. Which is strange. Because Sheila told me where to go and I did not believe I was lost so now it is me being confused where I thought I was not. You see?"

Washington feels himself slipping into the chaotic one more time but he fights it, instead clearing his throat and repositioning himself into a more confident stance. "I don't know who Sheila is, but yes. You are at Sweet Home. You aren't confused. Well. You're not anymore confused right now than I am. Uh. I live here now. With Doctor Grey. Emily. Doctor… _lady._ Am I making sense? I don't think I am."

However, the confused posturing seemed to be speaking to the man's language because his grin only grows and grows the further the conversation goes down the rabbit hole.

"I am at the Sugar House?" he asks. "And you're the new friend at Sugar House?"

"I'm… what?" Wash asks, the chaos threatening to swirl out of control.

Without clarifying, the man pulls out a large smartphone from his pocket and holds it flat close to his chin. It looks a little awkward from Washington's angle, like the finer motor movements are lacking refinement.

"Sheila!" the man shouts across the surface of the phone, causing the screen to light up with a familiar app — the service assistant. "Thank you! I'm here!"

 _"I am happy for you, Private!"_ the smartphone cheerfully responds.

And, again, Wash pieces it all together.

After all, the service assistant had been offered to him, just like every other veteran from the War. The high tech phone app was a personal assistant for recovering servicemen and women. It was a bit of an insult to be offered one, even though almost no human soldier left the terrain without it being beneficial to have one.

The stigma had been enough to keep Washington away from accepting the service assistant at the time, and as a result he unwittingly had refuted future medical and mental health claims he could take from his service. It seems that pride was a good way to keep those who gave almost everything to their country from actually receiving anything in return.

While judgments flared up in Washington's mind, driven into his instincts from basic, he also wondered if the man before him is actually a secret genius.

"What branch did you serve in?" Washington finds himself asking.

The main blinks at him, stroking the dog's head as he fumbles his phone back into his pockets.

"I was marines," Washington offers again.

"Yeah, I was with Church and Tucker," the man says happily. "Did you know them?"

Wash feels his brows knit together in concern. "I… no?"

"Oh, okay. They were with me. I never remember being in a tree," he states with a shrug of his large shoulders.

"Okay," Wash says. "Well, my name is Washington."

"That's a funny name," the man says with no tact. "I am Michael J. Caboose."

" _That's_ a funny name," Wash says sardonically before he can even catch himself.

Almost as if he understands, the dog pins his ears back against his head and lets out a low string of growls in Washington's direction. He doesn't seem to appreciate Wash's sarcasm. But his master doesn't seem to mind.

"It is funny. We both have funny names. I've never met a General Washington. I bet you've never met a Caboose. Or maybe you did. Have you met any of my sisters? I have many of them. It wouldn't surprise me," Caboose says breathlessly.

"Who knows in this town," Wash says with a soft laugh of his own. "And believe me, I'm no general. Kind of glad I'm not… except for the retirement benefits." He tries to laugh again but sees only blankness in return from Caboose. Wash coughs to clear the air and then tries to move things along in a way that may not hint to the other man that Washington has absolutely no idea how to handle social situations. At all. "I'm sorry I wasn't expecting you. Emily didn't mention anything about someone coming in today. Not… that she ever mentions it… But she's never gone for too long if you want to sit in and wait."

"Oh, no, thank you, no. I cannot stay. I cannot stay because I have to go. Sheila has told me many times already that I have to go. She has been reminding me everyday that today is the day that I have to go." Caboose explains without any semblance of explanation. He then looks like an idea has just crossed his mind and he fumbles in his pockets again to repeat the move with his phone. "Sheila!"

 _"Yes, Caboose?"_ the service assistant says, lighting up.

"Tell Mister Washington how I have to go!" he says with the excitement of a kid at Christmas.

 _"Private Michael J. Caboose must be at the platform in forty-five minutes in order to depart on the 343 train to—"_

"See, I told you," Caboose interrupts, shoving his phone back without even bothering to tell the app to turn off. Wash can't help but stare at the way it glows through the man's khaki pants in the worst way imaginable. "I cannot stay for the doctor. I have to leave. I have a train."

"Oh, okay," Wash says. "I'll…uh… tell Emily you came by then. I'm sure she'll be sorry that she missed you."

Caboose's smile is brilliant, but sort of in a way that Wash isn't sure what he's smiling about. "Oh, she'll know." He then turns to face his dog and gets down on one knee to be level with him. The dog, almost knowingly, begins whining like a puppy. "Be a good boy! Be a good boy! I'll be home soon, yes be a good boy!"

Processing the moment takes Washington a second longer than he should and, as suddenly as his morning was interrupted by Caboose, it is being uninterrupted by the man stepping out the door.

"Wait what," Washington finally manages to utter just before Caboose grabs the handle of the back door.

The large man waves emphatically. "Thank you, General! I will see you and the good doctor lady soon! But I have to get to my train!"

 _"Private Michael J. Caboose's train is departing in forty-two minutes—"_

"Wait! I don't know—" Washington tries to shout but the door is slammed shut with tremendous force, enough to make _one_ of Emily's piles of books nearby tip over and go scattering across the floor.

Washington and Freckles both stare at the books for a few disquieting seconds.

Then Washington gives the dog a wary look. "I can't escape the nonsense can I?"

The dog snarls in return before huffing. It then walks — with confidence and ownership of the house that Washington dreams of building up to at some point before his fifties — through the short hall from the kitchen and into the living room where it promptly takes the seat that _Washington_ has been using for the last week.

"God _damn_ it Emily," Wash curses at the air, nose curling.

* * *

When Grey returns home it is with the flourish that Washington has com to expect.

It's almost like nothing in the world and changed and everything is good and there's nothing but perfect innocence exuding from Emily's every pour. And that doesn't change even slightly as she trounces on through the door and looks down to meet Wash's gaze.

For his part, Washington's sitting on the floor with his back against three stacks of books. The one in his hand has been occupying the space he had been staring at prior to Emily's entrance.

A funny expression came over Emily's perpetually peasant face as she locks eyes with Wash and she puts her hands on her hips, flouncy skirt bobbing in a wave. "Why, Washington! What are you doing on the floor, _silly?"_

There's some sort of crack in Wash's forced smile like his teeth are too sharp to be contained. "I'll give you three guesses," he offers.

Then, there's a ferocious bark from the living room that draws Emily's eyes away from him.

"The first two guesses don't count," Wash declares as the dog's head pokes out from around the corner.

"Freckles!" Emily calls out in utter delight.

With a complete change in character, Freckles loosens up the ramrod straightness of his body and begins bounding through the hall, heftily landing two paws on Wash's lap without warning. By the time the dog is at Emily, he's nothing but an overgrown puppy with a wagging tail and playful keening barks.

She happily catches the dog's front paws and meets his nose.

It would be an adorable image if Washington wasn't already sick to death of everything surrounding it.

"That all we got to say?" he demands soothingly.

Emily looks up from the dog, a curious smile, but a smile all the same, looking back on him. "What now?" she acts coyly.

"This has to stop!" Wash snaps, finally getting to his feet, slamming the book in his hands onto the top of one of piles of books as he does so.

Of course, the world never wants things to work out simply for Washington and in mere _moments_ after his tantrum, the line of books begins to topple as a result. And soon, like dominos, the books around the house begin to fall, one into another, all around them.

Freckles is unhappy at the development and bravely gets between Wash and Emily, growling with his haunches raised.

Emily Grey is looking around in complete shock.

Washington feels like an asshole. "Goddammit! I mean. I'm sorry. Here," he mutters, beginning to get on one knee to pick up the stray books. But he stops himself, after only grabbing two, he gets back to his feet and shakes his head. "No. _No!_ Okay. God _dammit._ I have to… I have to _say something_ before it makes me explode!"

"Like defacing hundreds of dollars of property belonging to a roommate?" Grey offers.

"Fucking— _yes,"_ Washington grits his teeth angrily. "This is _not_ going to work if I don't say anything, and you know what? I actually _want_ this to work. I _want_ to live here. I _want_ to be… I don't know. I want to be here with you. In this house. Stupid. Confectionary. Sugared-ice-tea house."

" _Sweet Home,"_ Emily answers, like it's vital to the conversation. "Why do you want to be here, Mister Washington?"

Wash stares at her, beginning to wonder if she's listened to _anything_ he's ever said but, suddenly, looking into her eyes, he realizes for the first time that she is being frightfully serious.

She wants to know. Which, is to say, she _doesn't_ understand.

"I don't have anywhere else to go," Wash answers pathetically.

"Neither do I," she agrees.

"Yes, but it's still _your_ house at the end of the day," Wash says. "I can leave, even if there's nowhere to go. Because this house isn't mine. Because there are no parts of it — no _lines_ in it — that are mine and only mine. I need. I need…"

"Boundaries?" she tries to guess again.

Wash scowls at her. " _Respect,"_ he corrects her. "And I'm…. I'm just not going to receive it as long as you continue to be inconsiderate of our differences."

It isn't _quite_ knocking down every book in a maze of a house, it isn't _quite_ a fiery explosion, but it's every bit of Washington's guts and brains spewed out all the same. Words he hasn't even put together fully formed in his own mind yet are suddenly there, bared open for them both.

For the first time since they met, Emily Grey is speechless.

Until she isn't.

"So you are a cat person?"

Washington takes off up the stairs, fuming all over again and not sure when he's going to blow.


End file.
